


so give me hope in the darkness

by bookhobbit



Series: The Magic Circle [5]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:29:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mr Strange and Mr Norrell find some comfort in each other and remember the past, and Mr Strange discovers an interesting new fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so give me hope in the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> part three of the finishing-all-my-fic spam! I am so sorry, again. This is another thing I started in freakin' July ugh remind me not to let so much time pass between starting something and finishing it.

May 1818

 

It was raining in Faerie.

This was a great disappointment to Jonathan Strange, who had been hoping to spend the day exploring the new world they had found themselves in. Instead, he had consoled himself with an afternoon spent wandering Hurtfew, which he had never seen in its entirety. This was not proving very interesting or exciting. But in a little attic room he had found a box and so, he thought, it might be about to get more so.

He opened the box slowly, hoping for some sort of magical artefact that Mr Norrell had concealed from him. This would not be the first time he had found a secret, although generally they were books rather than artefacts proper. But these were only letters. Puzzled, he took them out and looked through them. They seemed to be Mr Norrell’s handwriting, which was very odd; who would save letters from Mr Norrell?

He peeked at one, feeling only a little guilty. Perhaps it was not very ethical of him, but he thought there could be few secrets between the two of them any more, and in any case he meant no harm.

The letters were addressed to Childermass. Strange realized they were not exactly business letters. They reminded Strange of the letters Mr Norrell had sent him in the Peninsula; as dry and dull as Mr Norrell’s speech ever was, but with something a little bit more behind them. A fondness, almost.

Had the two of them been such good friends as to not only write each other letters, but for Childermass to consider them important enough to save? That was certainly deeper waters than Strange had expected.

He heard a creaking on the stairs, and started guiltily. Before he could conceal the his crime, Mr Norrell’s face, under its little grey wig, peeked into the doorway.

“Mr Strange?” he said. “I was thinking of making tea. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I am,” said Strange, torn between the urge to conceal the letters and the urge to remain perfectly natural. Something of this must have been obvious even to Mr Norrell, for his gaze dropt to the letters in Strange’s hand.

“I am sorry,” said Strange. “I was exploring. Was this Childermass’s room?”

“Yes,” said Mr Norrell. “It was.”

“I did not mean any harm. I was only curious about the house. If I had realized…”

“I did not know he kept them,” said Mr Norrell, staring at the letters. He crept into the room, closer to Strange. There was a very odd look on his face. Again Strange wondered whether there might not have been something rather odd in the relationship between the two of them.

“Well,” he said, putting the letters down. “It seems he did. That is rather - er, unusual, for a servant.”

“You know perfectly well that Childermass was never a usual sort of servant,” said Mr Norrell, although it lacked the fire of spite. He looked tired as he reached out to take the letters on the floor.

“That is very true,” said Strange. He did not seem to know where to take the conversation next. There was an air of awkward tension about the room. Mr Norrell was small and curled into himself, staring at the letters in his hand, so he was no help in moving past the topic.

“I sent him away,” Mr Norrell said finally. “I thought he had sympathies for you.”

Strange furrowed his eyebrows. “He may have. But I do not think that lessened his loyalty to you. He was shot for you, Mr Norrell.”

“I should like to tell him that I am sorry,” he said. He looked so very distressed that Strange was moved to reach out. He touched Mr Norrell’s arm gently. Mr Norrell seemed to shiver under it, and then to thaw. He leaned towards Strange slightly, and Strange rubbed his arm soothingly.

After a moment, Strange said,  "I should like to apologize to my wife. For leaving her alone. And for not realizing that she was - There are many things we both want, now that we are no longer in the world. But there is not very much we can do just now.“

"That is why we must keep researching and not grow distracted,” said Mr Norrell. “It is useless to waste energy with regrets.”

Strange thought to himself that this was very like Mr Norrell’s other excuses for not doing something he did not wish to do, but for the moment he let it go.

“I know, sir,” he said. “I am sorry. Perhaps we could forget this? It will do neither of us any good to get caught up in grief, as you say.”

“Yes,” said Mr Norrell, sighing. “Yes. I think that would be best.”

His hand came up to Strange’s and lingered for a moment. Just a moment.

But it was long enough.

-

Three days later Strange was reading a book. Or, rather, in theory he was reading a book; in fact he was watching Mr Norrell, who still seemed peculiar.

He had the greatest urge to reach out again, to touch him. Strange thought perhaps some sort of boundary might have been breached, one that he did not wish to see reconstructed.

“Well, Mr Norrell,” he said, “You still seem to be a little upset. I hope I did not offend you with the letters. I really did not mean to do any such thing.”

Mr Norrell shook his head. “No. It is not that.”

Strange thought he might have an inkling of the problem. Mr Norrell’s hand on his had been very hesitant and slow, but…

“Come,” he said, getting up and moving over to a large sopha. “Come over here. Bring your book.”

Mr Norrell looked over at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“You will see. I promise it will not be anything dreadful.”

“I do not find that reassuring, Mr Strange.”

Nevertheless Mr Norrell came over to the sopha with his book and perched tentatively beside Strange.

Strange had a theory, one which he was not at all certain of but which he was quite willing to test. It ran something like this: Mr Norrell had been sad since he had been reminded of Childermass. Childermass had been his constant companion and perhaps even his friend. Therefore: he was lonely. It was not such a shock; they had been cut off from England and all that they had held dear. Whenever Strange was lonely he liked to be touched and cuddled and generally reminded that he was not alone and that people did care for him.

Cuddling Mr Norrell was a bit of a stretch. Strange did not think Mr Norrell was likely to accept Strange going that far. Nevertheless, perhaps a little human contact would do the man no harm.

What sort of touch was casual? Strange had a hard time knowing in light of Mr Norrell’s dislike of, apparently, most social interaction. After a moment, he reached out and touched Mr Norrell’s arm again.

“What are you doing?” said Mr Norrell, starting.

“Touching your arm,” said Strange.

“I realize that, Mr Strange. I was hoping for an explanation for your behavior.”

“Can a man not touch his friends when they are trapped a tower of eternal darkness together?”

“I take it that is a rhetorical question.”

Strange moved his hand to Mr Norrell’s back and rested it there. “See?” he said. “It is not so bad.”

“I still do not understand your purpose.” But Mr Norrell was making no move to shake him off, and he seemed to be relaxing fractionally.

“I thought it would cheer you up. You have seemed very distressed lately.”

“Cheer me up?”

Strange tried to think of a way to ask “Doesn’t a friendly caress always cheer you up? It works for me,” without engendering strong objections or having to use to word ‘caress’  at all. He could not, so he said, “Well, to remind you that I am here for you.”

“…thank you,” said Mr Norrell, rather more suspiciously than Strange would have liked.

“I only thought it would make you feel better,” said Strange. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” said Mr Norrell after a pause. “No, I cannot say that it does.”

Satisfied, Strange brought a hand up to Mr Norrell’s head and ran a hand through his hair in as friendly a fashion as he could. Mr Norrell leaned back, eyes closed, and sighed. This was exceedingly startling to Strange, who thought the reaction more likely to be an indignant rejection.

Well, he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

This was perhaps farther than companions ought to go, even in their circumstances, but Strange did not consider himself a slave to convention. And in any case he had not done this - sat close to someone, played with their hair - since Arabella had been taken from him. He realized he had felt the lack keenly, and resolved to maintain it in the future.

Mr Norrell did not seem inclined to touch Strange in return, but that would do for now. This was just for Mr Norrell’s benefit, after all. Strange told himself that very firmly, and studiously avoided interrogating why it was so hard for him to believe.

-

“You are entirely wrong, sir,” said Strange, an additional week later.

This was not an unusual occurrence within the Pillar of Darkness. Indeed, it was something that often happened several times a day. In this specific instance he was arguing with Mr Norrell about spells of weather, and to what degree they depending upon the caster’s mood at the time.

“It is you who are wrong,” said Mr Norrell, which occurred nearly as frequently. “It is true that a sore throat or head cold can often be enough to disrupt a magician’s abilities, but to suggest that one casts stronger magic when one is happy! Why, think of the things you did just before we were sent here!”

“I do not only say happiness,” said Strange in an exasperated tone. “Passion, sir! And in any case I did no weather-magic.”

“You brought a storm.”

“That hardly requires fineness. Storms are nothing.”

“They certainly are not. The more powerful the weather, the more powerful the magic needs to be.”

“Not at all, it is control that it is difficult.”

“You have no understanding at all!” exclaimed Mr Norrell, leaning very close to Strange in his anger. “I do not think you can show me a single example - ”

On an impulse he could not name perhaps brought on by proximity and the strength of his current emotions, Strange grabbed Mr Norrell’s wrists and kissed him.

The noise of shock Mr Norrell made sent a warm spark through Strange’s chest, but he pulled back and released Mr Norrell almost at once, aware of the impropriety he had just committed. But Lord! it had felt good to do that again. He realized with a jerk that he too was very lonely, more than he had realized. That would explain the impulse, he thought. Come to think of it, it would explain the other things too.

“Sir - ” he began.

“Do not hold my wrists,” said Mr Norrell.

Strange blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Do not hold my wrists,” Mr Norrell repeated. “I find it most discomfiting to have my movements restricted.” Mr Norrell looked down, his voice dropping to barely audible. “Your argument was otherwise most persuasive.”

“I see,” said Strange, with a feeling of having stepped down expecting a gap and finding a stair. He took Mr Norrell’s face in his hands - careful not to limit his range of motion - and pressed his lips to Mr Norrell’s again.

Underneath the euphoria there was a faint tinge of guilt, but he had no idea of when he would next see Arabella, and he had implied that she should take another lover if she wished. Oh! he had missed the feeling of hands in his hair, of cradling a face, the solid warmth of another body clutched to him in an embrace. It made him feel grounded, real. Surely Bell would not grudge him this, not after so long?

He thought she would not.

Mr Norrell’s hands came up to his shoulders, and then to his hair. Strange sighed. The hands threading through his hair were hesitant and light, and yet it made him feel alive in a way he had not felt in months.

Mr Norrell kissed a little clumsily and uncertainly - though less so than Strange would have guessed, if pressed - but with his eyes very tightly shut and his hands gentle, as if it meant something, as if it was important. He kissed with the kind of careful consideration of someone who wants very much to get it right.

Strange thought his theory about loneliness must have been correct. Otherwise what reason for this benediction, this focus, like a first kiss with someone you have loved for a long time? Strange had kissed Arabella that way once and he remembered how it felt.

An absurd thought, of course. Yes, it was certain that Mr Norrell was lonely as well. Strange was sorry he had not thought to do this before, if it would have spared them both pain.

“You are somewhat more adept at this than I expected,” said Strange, as he pulled back for air.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Norrell, slightly breathless but still able to manage an offended tone.

“I had imagined you less so,” explained Strange.

Mr Norrell’s face twisted into a very odd expression. “You have imagined?”

“Idly. Once or twice.” Although, now that he thought of it, perhaps it had been more. When had that started? He put the thought aside for a moment. “In any case I assumed you would be inexperienced.”

“I have kissed other people,” said Mr Norrell sternly, although the gravity of this was lessened by his apparent inability to move more than a few inches from Strange’s face.

“Oh?” Strange raised his eyebrows.

“Well, one other person.”

“Who?”

“I do not think that is relevant,” said Mr Norrell, leaning back in, nose bumping Strange’s. Strange let it stand. There was a sense of going down an irrevocable path, but he had never been one to tread carefully - his present situation was proof of that.

He met Mr Norrell halfway and let go.

The uncertainty was fading with Mr Norrell’s shyness and yes, Strange was certain Mr Norrell must have kissed his someone quite a lot, and perhaps not so very long ago. He did not seem inexperienced; in fact he was a delight to kiss now that they were into the swing of things, so soft and responsive and unexpectedly competent. Who could he have spent so much time with him without -  

“Childermass!” exclaimed Strange when they broke for air.

Mr Norrell gave him a worried look. “No,” he said. “You are mistaken. It is I.”

“No, no,” said Strange, waving. “Childermass. He’s the one you kissed.”

Mr Norrell’s mouth thinned into a line. “What on earth do you - ”

“That goes some way to explaining things.”

“What things?”

“Oh! The tone of the letters, of course. And the fact that Childermass was exceptionally loyal. I had wondered at that.” Strange manfully refrained from adding  _and in retrospect you two were hardly subtle_. That would explain some of the little hints Arabella had dropped. “I did not feel that you entirely deserved it.”

At this, Mr Norrell sputtered.

Strange continued, “But now I see how it is. You should count yourself fortunate for having had a companion so faithful. I am correct, am I not?”

Mr Norrell nodded stiffly. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, as if reaching for words.

“I miss him,” he said. “I know it is not quite the same thing as the way you must miss your wife, but - ”

Strange reached forward and took his hand. “No,” he said, “I am sure it is very much the same. Love is love, isn’t it?”

“Was it love? Can two men be in love?”

“Oh,” said Strange, “I do not know whether that matters. Terminology, I mean.” He squeezed Mr Norrell’s hand. “What matters is that you cared for each other. And we are both here now, and we have each other.”

Mr Norrell sighed. He leaned his forehead against Strange’s again. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am - I am very glad of that, Mr Strange. If it had to be someone…”

“You might call me Jonathan,” said Strange in a rush, feeling strangely giddy. “Gilbert. It seems silly to stand on ceremony after what we have just done.”

Mr Norrell gave him an odd, startled look, but he nodded slowly. “Jonathan,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well. I suppose so.”

Strange felt that there was something underneath the surface still, something not quite stated, but he was prepared to wait.

It was not as if they did not have the time, after all.


End file.
